Summer in the City
by wordplaywright
Summary: 13 year old Draco Malfoy has recently become a junior Death Eater, but certain events that befall him after a Floo accident, and involve a certain person with messy dark hair and spectacles make him regret it. An AU story.
1. Chapter 1

**A Not Too Exciting Prologue**

Peter Pettigrew's betrayal was discovered by Snape a few minutes before the attack against Godric's Hollow. Naturally, Dumbledore rushed to the Potters' rescue, and faced down Voldemort. Snape arrived there a bit later, to find four dead bodies and a baby who miraculously survived the fight.

The arriving Aurors and Cornelius Fudge saw Severus Snape and Harry Potter vanish into thin air. That was the last time anybody saw them. Their Ministry files are empty, except for the red label LOCATION CURRENTLY UNKNOWN stamped on the first page.

After Dumbledore's death, Hogwarts collapsed and has remained that way, because no has had enough courage to approach the place. People are still afraid of the ghosts who prowl the ruins.

In the political vacuum where there was no Dumbledore and no Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy could finally seize power. It's said that Minister Fudge is only a puppet in his hands. The new Pureblood regime has been persecuting Part-humans, Muggleborn, order sympathizers and even Squibs ever since. Some of them were able to escape from the wizarding world and hide themselves among the Muggle masses; the less fortunate were sent to Azkaban.

For 13-year-old Draco Malfoy, the Order and Harry Potter used to be nothing but a legend – until the 29th July, 1993.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Draco Malfoy was immensely bored. He wished he had his wand back. His father had left him behind to wait for him in the Atrium while he went to talk to Cornelius Fudge, which meant Draco was going to wait for hours. With a sigh, he settled himself on the edge of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and watched the statues as they spurted water in graceful streams.

Dobby the house elf sat beside him, cradling his recently ironed left hand. Draco couldn't suppress a giggle whenever he looked at Dobby's left hand – it looked really funny, flat and thin as a pancake. To tell the truth, Draco was, to some extent, responsible for the hand's current state. After all, he did ask Dobby to put a bucket of water above Draco's door so that anyone daring to intrude – possibly with the intention of _tidying_ the room – would die a painful, messy and wet death. As it had always been Dobby's task to tidy Draco's room, he expected the house elf to be the victim. It was just brilliant that Dobby had set the trap for himself.

The problem was, Narcissa Malfoy chose that day to realise that Draco never allowed Dobby to clean up in his room. So instead of sending Dobby, she went do do the tidying on her own. Draco would never forget the sight of his mother with the upended bucket on her head, her hair and clothes dripping wet.

And when she asked Draco who'd put the bucket over the door, he had told her truthfully that it had been Dobby. And Dobby could do nothing but agree, and iron his hands.

Draco stood up.

"Stay," he told Dobby. "I'll be right back."

"Where is Master Draco going, sir?" Dobby asked anxiously.

"To the loo," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I would gladly ask you to be so kind and sod off, but my father already told me that was out of the question. However, I can still tell you to stay here and not move your ugly little arse an inch."

With that, Draco walked away, as fast as his feet could carry him, not waiting for an answer. He hated Dobby; the creature was always tagging along behind him, as if he couldn't take care of himself.

That was revolting. Draco was thirteen. He could take care of himself just fine.

He spent several minutes searching in vain for the loo. It seemed the loo must have been charmed to remain invisible whenever someone was in a desperate need to use it. Or maybe such mundane things as a full bladder were considered not befitting the sacred halls of wizarding bureaucracy and boot-licking, so they never got to building a loo in the first place. Just to make sure clients wetted themselves, if not with fear or awe, then with sheer physical need.

Well, maybe it would have been wise to stay with Dobby and pee into the Fountain of Magical Brethren, after all.

But Draco thought a Malfoy couldn't possibly sink so low. So he walked to the information desk, and asked the clerk politely, "Sir, I need to use the loo. Could you be so kind and tell me where it is, please?"

"There aren't any toilets on this level," the clerk said, producing a small badge and giving it to Draco. "Please go to Level Seven. The guards will let you use the employees' toilets if you show them this badge."

Draco looked down at the badge. It said, VISITOR -- TOILET USAGE PERMITTED.

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but I find this badge ridiculous," he said, and gave it back to the clerk. "I do not feel inclined to let a bunch of security guards laugh at me."

The clerk looked offended, but Draco ignored him, and ran to the nearest fireplace, pushing away the officials queuing in front of it.

"Wait a minute!" a wizard with a bushy moustache said. "Where the hell do you think you are going, young man?"

"Home, Sir, where I can piss in peace, but I am afraid it's none of your business," Draco replied politely, and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. As he stepped among the green flames, he saw a small figure with bulbous ears and one flat hand Apparating right beside the fireplace.

"Master Draco, no!" Dobby squeaked, with a frantic expression on his face. "Master Malfoy said we should not go anywhere, sir!"

"Stand back, you pillock!" Draco yelled, stamping his foot. Or would have yelled, but his foot stirred the soot up, so it got into his mouth and made him cough.

He knew instantly that having mispronounced his destination meant big trouble. Not that he could do anything about it, now. He was overwhelmed by the familiar sensation of being sucked down – or up – a chimney. Which was reasonable, the Floo system consisting of fireplaces and chimneys, but a tad uncomfortable nevertheless.

When he landed on something very small but very hot in an otherwise cold and obviously closed, iron stove, he realized the trouble was bigger than he had thought.

"Ow!" Draco yelped, as he felt the small but hot thing burning a hole in his trousers. He reached under his butt, feeling for the hot little object. When he found it, it was still hot, but it didn't burn Draco again. Draco prodded the latch on the stove's hatch, and opened it. He couldn't climb out, of course, the hatch was too small, but he could at least look at the thing that had burned him.

It was a – well, if it had been wrapped in tobacco leaves, not paper, Draco would have said it was the end of a cigar. Minister Fudge loved cigars. Draco saw him smoke a lot. Father hated cigars. He said smoking cigars was a Muggle eccentricity.

Draco couldn't care less about cigars. Right now, he simply wanted out. He looked around, trying to stifle the growing feeling of panic in his stomach.

He was in a room which looked very much like a Potions laboratory. Massive shelves full of potion ingredients stood by the walls. In the middle of the room, there was a desk with sheets of parchment scattered on top. There was a sturdy bookcase next to the stove. The bookcase, it seemed, also served as a workbench. On top of it, there were several cauldrons of different size, along with uniform little bottles in neat rows. There were small labels listing the ingredients on each bottle. Sneezewort, scurvy-grass, lovage. Asphodel, wormwood, hellebore, cannabis, belladonna. Chopped daisy roots, skinned shrivelfig, sliced caterpillar, rat spleen, leech juice –

Shrinking Solution. Draco didn't study Potions in his spare time for nothing. One of the bottles contained Shrinking Solution. And the bottle was almost within Draco's reach, on the corner of the workbench.

Draco stuck his hand out of the hatch, reaching out as far as he could. He'd left his wand in the Ministry, so his options at getting out of the stove were limited to either snatching the Shrinking Solution from the desk, or screaming until someone came to his rescue. As screaming was undignified, it was out of the question. But if he could grab the Shrinking Solution, he would be able to get out of the stove.

He strained and stretched his arm until he felt it had become as thin as a shoelace, but a few inches were still missing. The angle was wrong. Draco ignored the knot in his stomach, pulled his arm back and wondered what to do.

He had an idea, but it required making a fool of himself. Not that the current situation wasn't embarrassing enough.

Draco finally decided he had nothig to lose, and carefully started rocking inside the stove. The stove started teetering and vibrating with a low sound that gave Draco the impression of being trapped in a church bell. But he was moving at last. So when he estimated the stove was unstable enough, he plastered both his palms on the side of the stove, and twisted his lower body violently.

The stove's feet whined on the stone floor as it turned. There was a moment when it leaned to one side like the Tower of Pisa, but in the end, it dropped back to a vertical position with a thud. Draco peered out of the hatch. Now the angle seemed fine. Draco stuck his shaking arm out again -- and his strainig fingers scratched the neck of the bottle. Draco jammed his shoulder against the hatch, even though he supposed there would be bruises later, and when he pulled his hand back, he was holding the bottle of Shrinking Solution in his hand.

He gulped it down immediatly. He started to feel the effects the moment it hit his stomach: suddenly he felt so full as if he'd eaten two birthday cakes for breakfast. Which meant his stomach had shrunk to the eighth of its size. The next moment, Draco felt his suddenly too big clothes slip from his shrunken form and pool around his feet. He shoved them through the hatch and climbed after them.

He landed on his clothes, which were sitting on the stone floor in a nice soft bundle. Now all he had to do was to climb under the bundle, hide, and wait until the potion wore off.

It was going to be the worst hour of Draco's life. He was the size of a cat, naked and cold. His goolies were the size of a pea. His virility only an inch long. In short, it was hell. And what if someone walked in on him?

Judging by the sound of footsteps outside the lab, he'd know the answer soon.

Draco scrambled to his feet and hid behind the workbench, dragging his clothes with him.

A young boy about Draco's age entered the room, followed by a sour-faced man.

Draco had heard rumours that Muggle clothes were strange, but were boys supposed to wear _skirts_ here? Because this boy wore a screaming red skirt with a blue and white striped top that had an obviously feminine cut. The top was billowing on the boy's skinny upper body as if on a wire hanger. Although Draco was terrified that they might discover him (not that there was too much to _dis_cover), he couldn't suppress a smirk at the sight of the boy.

In order to suppress his laughter, Draco focused his attention on the man. Now, there was nothing funny about _him_. He was dressed in a white – robe; Draco couldn't find a more appropriate term for it – stained with Potion ingredients. He inclined his head towards the boy, letting his greasy black hair fall into his face, and said, "How many times did I tell you to take your potion in time?"

"I forgot, okay?" the boy said, glaring at the man.

The man's sallow skin flushed as he leaned down to the boy until the tip of his hooked nose was almost touching the boy's. His beetle-black eyes were fixed on the boy's face – more precisely, on the boy's forehead, which Draco found strange.

"What would you have done if that stupid best friend of yours walked in on you while you were in this shape?" the man asked. "I have told you to stay home on potion days."

His voice was a mere whisper, but it made Draco shudder. It was the creepiest voice he'd ever heard, his father's not included.

"Oh, leave Hermione alone!" the boy said, rolling his green eyes. "You're mad at her because her mum and dad have offered to fix your teeth."

The man bared his uneven, yellow teeth and spat in the boy's face, "My. Teeth. Do. Not. Need. Fixing."

The boy grinned at him. "Sure. Whatever you say, Uncle."

The man glared at him. "It is the girl who has buck teeth, not me. Why do they not fix _her_ teeth first?"

"She has braces," the boy said. "You can't expect them to shrink her teeth."

"You are right; I cannot." The man let out an exasperated moan, and straightened up while his spine cracked unpleasantly. He started towards the workbench. Draco managed to slip under the bench just in time, before the man stepped round it and started rummaging among the bottles.

"Here. Drink this. It is going to hurt, as you know very well," Draco heard him say, followed by a pop as the bottle was uncorked. But Draco wasn't really paying attention to that. His own body was slowly beginning to change back. The space under the bench felt snug now. Draco tried to flatten himself against the floor as much as he was able, but if the man and the boy didn't leave soon, he would surely be discovered.

Something hit the ground in front of the workbench with a thud. It was the boy – or would have been, but for the tits. Draco stared with his mouth open. The boy/girl's face was contorted with pain. His – no, definitely _her_ – glasses clattered to the floor. The hook-nosed man stooped down, picked them up, then offered a hand to the girl.

"Stand up, Harry. If you hadn't forgotten to take the potion in time, it would not hurt now."

"Yeah, I know," Harry the girl said, letting the man pull her to her feet. "How did you find me, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be working in the British Museum right now?"

"I had to return for some old notes about reptiles. And when I saw you were not here, I decided to telephone the Grangers."

While Draco wondered what the phrase _tellerfoaming the Grangers_ meant, the man went to the desk and made a show of stuffing several thick folders into a shiny black briefcase. "I think you had better come along with me now. You are going to help me clean the fossils. It is better than helping Mrs. Fletcher sell those Muggle medicines. By the way, where is Mrs. Fletcher?"

"Out to lunch." The girl's face lit up. "I always wanted to see those fossils. They're so cool. Can I bring Hermione, too? She'd be fascinated –"

"_Fascinated!_" the man hissed. The girl called Harry shut up very quickly. Her uncle gave her a deadly glare. "Over my dead body. Or hers. Well, to tell you the truth, it _would_ be pleasant to kill her, but unfortunately, altruistic acts like that are punishable by law. So no, you are not allowed to bring Miss Granger along. She would start talking about girlish things, and I would feel inclined to vomit all over the fossils as I listen to her."

"No, she never talks about girlish things. Or do you think quantum physics is girlish. Really, I don't see why you hate her so much," the girl called Harry said. "She's my best friend!"

"Do you think so?" the man asked. Draco shivered again, even though the man's voice wasn't malicious. Just frightening. "She is not one of our kind. Not one of us. She thinks she knows everything better than other people."

"Yeah? Well, there's one thing she definitely knows better than you," the girl called Harry shouted. "She knows what I'm like!"

The man's eyes narrowed.

"Does she now?" he asked, very quietly. "I thought she only knew what _Julia_ was like. Or does she know Harry as well?"

The girl called Harry – or Julia – stared at her uncle for a moment, then turned and stormed out of the room. The man followed her.

When the door closed behind them, Draco could finally wiggle out from under the bed. He changed back to his normal size almost immediately. He dressed up as fast as he could, and went to the door, hoping wherever 'Julia' and her uncle went, they'd left it unlocked.

It seemed they did. Draco wrenched it open and stepped through. To his surprise, he found himself in the front area of a Muggle shop. It was pure white, squeaky clean and smelled like the toilet at St Mungo's. The shelves were full of small, colourful cardboard boxes Draco was unable to identify.

The shop was empty, the man and the girl nowhere in sight, so Draco went to the entrance and probed the door carefully. It was open. Draco stepped outside. It was high time he went home. He had to find the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road. The problem was, he hadn't the foggiest idea as to where Caring Cross Road could be. So he decided he would just start wandering about Muggle London and ask people.

Draco looked at the shop one more time. The sign above the shopwindow said, _ARABELLA FLETCHER, APOTHECARY_. Well, that wasn't too informative. Draco glanced at the street sign. It said _Standard Place_. It was useful to memorize the name, in case he got lost – which was more likely to happen than he was willing to admit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Draco could have sworn the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron was supposed to be right in front of him, but all he could see was a blank brick wall. The building didn't even have windows. Draco kicked the wall hard, howled in pain as his foot made contact with the bricks, and promptly sat down on the pavement, cradling the damaged limb.

It had taken him the whole afternoon to get here. London was like a gigantic maze, with streets, streets and even more streets. Draco had never seen anything like that. He was tired, hungry and unable to go home. He was also a bit scared – some people he'd seen on the way were even shabbier than the beggars and thieves in Knockturn Alley. And not only shabbier – they were like lifeless husks. Draco had seen a wizard like that once, when his father had taken him to Azkaban and showed him a recently Kissed convict. The eyes of these Muggles were like that man's eyes.

Draco hauled himself to his feet and slowly began to make his way in the general direction of Standard Place. It was dark now, and the city seemed more terrible than ever before. Shadows towered over him, washed over the streets and transformed people into monsters. Draco was surrounded by darkened faces; hands seemed to flex threateningly while alleyways breathed cool death against his skin.

Draco broke into a run, but he felt as if he was just diving deeper and deeper into the night. As he ran, he had some close encounters with cars which threatened to run him over. If it hadn't been for his reflexes, he'd have surely died. _Give me a nice broom any day_, he thought desperately.

When he couldn't run anymore, he stopped and looked around to get his bearings. He was standing in front of a railway station. He'd never been here before, but the light seeping onto the pavement from the station seemed so bright and so welcoming that Draco couldn't resist it.

As he turned around, he saw a familiar shape from the corner of his eye. Or at least Draco believed that for a moment. But when he looked there, he could only see a man in filthy clothes, and a dog. The same man and dog he'd seen near the Leaky Cauldron. Back then, the man – or, more appropriately, beggar – seemed absolutely blind, but he obviously wasn't if he was able to follow Draco like this. And his untidy exterior was a sure sign of hardened criminals, according to Draco's _Defence Against Muggles_ textbook.

Draco didn't wait for the beggar to come closer. He dashed inside the station, and ran straight to the ticket office.

"A single ticket to Salisbury, please!" he said breathlessly. "Now!"

The clerk, a middle-aged woman, stared at him. "How old are you?" she asked in a not quite hostile tone.

"Thirteen," Draco said impatiently. "Would you please give me my ticket?"

The woman ignored his outburst. "Where are your parents?"

"They're home, and they're worried about me!" Draco said, barely resisting the urge to strangle the woman. "We live near Salisbury. I want to go home. Do I need to make myself clearer?"

The woman gave him a contemptuous look. "No, you don't. Now, tell me, why aren't your parents here?"

"Because I got lo–" Draco stopped in mid-sentence, realising he couldn't tell the woman he was lost, because she'd call the Aurors or whatever the Muggles called people who were allowed to kill other people at their Ministry's expense. "Because I got lots of books for my birthday but no chocolate. So I came here to buy some."

"Without telling your parents, I suppose?" the woman asked sharply.

"Er, yeah," he said, trying to look abashed. It wasn't that hard, really.

"Hmmm. Very well. A single ticket to Salisbury, reduced price. That would be – twelve pounds, please."

Draco decided giving her a Galleon would be enough. Gold tended to impress people. He held the coin up in front of the woman's face.

"Here."

The woman stared at Draco's hand. Draco followed her gaze, but he couldn't see anything, except the money and his fingers. All right, his hands were filthy. He'd had a close encounter with a stove earlier that day.

Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. Draco yelped, shook the hand down and whirled to see who it was. A middle-aged, well-dressed man was standing behind him. He smiled at Draco.

"Would you like to change that?" he asked, pointing at the gold coin Draco was gripping tightly.

"They don't – they don't accept Galleons here?" he asked.

"No, unfortunately not," the man said. "But I know a place where you can change it. Not far away. I can take you there."

Draco considered the offer, then nodded. "Thank you."

The man didn't seem dangerous at all, so Draco didn't object as he ushered him outside. But then, the man started dragging him towards those dark alleyways. Draco didn't like that a bit. He'd thought judging Muggles' motives would be easy. After all, they were supposed to be less intellingent than wizards, weren't they?

As the man turned towards him, and Draco saw the glint of a knife in his hand, he knew he'd been wrong.

"Wh-what do you want from me?" Draco asked, mentally reproaching himself for stuttering with fear. He should have been able to be frightened in a dignified way, at least. What a shame.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you, except if really necessary," the thief said in a light tone. "All I want is your nice gold coins."

"C-c-can I keep the silver, at least?" Draco asked back.

The man seemed to think about that. "No," he said at length. "Sorry."

"Oh. Well… all right, then," Draco muttered. To tell the truth, he was somewhat disappointed. He had really expected he'd be allowed to keep the Sickles. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, and when he pulled his hand back, he was holding a handful of silver and gold coins. Tentatively, he held them out to the man.

But then, something occurred to him. What would his father say if Draco got home without any money? How would Draco explain to him that a Muggle had taken away his money by force? How would Draco explain that he'd let a _Muggle_ know about Wizarding currency, and thus deprived the Wizarding world of its perfect camouflage?

Draco sighed, and slowly withdrew his hand.

"I'm terribly sorry, b-b-but it just wouldn't do to give in to your threats, as I am sure you don't deserve this money," he said as politely as he could. "By the way, isn't it unusual for thieves to use weapons?"

The man pressed the knife against his throat. "It is unusual, but as a free man, I have the right to use whatever supplementary materials I want. And I don't think you're in a position to judge what I deserve. This is the age of consumerism, boy. Everybody wants to get what they want. And I, for one, am particularly good at that. The ends justify the means."

"I m-m-must admit that my father would probably agree with you," Draco said carefully against the blade.

"See?" The man grinned at him. "Now –"

He never finished the sentence. Something big and black and furry smashed into him, knocking him off his feet. The man released Draco and tumbled to the ground.

Draco steadied himself, remembering to tuck the coins safely away in the depths of his pocket. His eyes widened as he realised the man's attacker was a huge black dog. He watched the struggle with awe. The dog was just as dirty as the blind beggar who was standing behind them, waiting. His eyes were like the dull gold of Galleons. And somehow he was staring at Draco, even though Draco knew the man _was_ blind and couldn't see him.

Meanwhile, the vicious dog made a show of biting the man's wrist so he dropped the knife. That seemed to encourage the dog, because it turned its attention to the man's rear part. It opened its mouth, then closed it. Draco heard a very fleshy sound. Then the man screamed like a girl. As far as Draco was able to judge, the dog had removed a big chunk from the man's buttocks.

"Let him go, Padfoot, please," the blind man said.

The dog bit the man on the butt once more, but in the end it did what he blind beggar asked. The thief scarpered. Draco was glad to see him go. But the blind man's unseeing gaze was still fixed on him. Draco, a bit uncertainly, returned the gaze.

_I'm in a staring contest with a blind man, and he seems to be winning_, he thought. _Weird_.

"Thank you for saving me, sir," he said, a bit confused. "Uh, first I thought you were the bad guy, because, er, you're dressed in rags, and, er, your personal hygiene is far from satisfactory. I'm very sorry I let your looks – and smell – er, cloud my mind. With thick clouds of odour. I mean, let's just say I've been wrong. And thanks again."

"You're welcome," the blind man said. "What's your name, boy?"

Draco hesitated, but the man was a Muggle, so he wouldn't know who the Malfoys were. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

The dog perked up, and the next moment, it jumped for Draco's throat, teeth bared. Draco screamed – but of course, _that_ wasn't girlish. It was a very high-pitched but manly yell.

The blind man's hand darted out and grabbed the dog by its collar, pulling it back. "Padfoot, no! Stop!"

The dog didn't seem to pay attention to him. It just kept snarling at Draco. Finally, the blind man had to pin the dog to the ground and sit on its back so that it couldn't harm anyone.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Padfoot usually likes children."

"I'm not a child!" Draco protested. "And your dog is crazy."

"I don't think so. On the contrary; I believe my dog is far too clever for his own sake," the blind man said thoughtfully.

"So, it's a he," Draco concluded.

"It is."

"What breed?"

The blind man looked even more thoughtful. "A very pure breed, I think. Aristocratic. Most noble and ancient."

The dog whined under the man's weight. Draco eyed both of them critically. "He doesn't look like a pure breed to me. More like a mixture of Newfie and German Shepherd. I mean, he's as big and black as a Newfie, and as aggressive and thin as a German Shepherd."

"Oh, he wasn't so thin before," the blind man said. "We're both a bit undernourished, I suppose."

Draco hesitated a bit, then presented a gold coin from his pocket. He took a step towards the blind man, but stopped when the dog started growling menacingly.

"Look," Draco began, "I don't like giving money to beggars, so I don't know if I should give you anything. And I've almost been robbed of all my pocket money a few minutes ago, so I'm not feeling too generous right now. But - but you haven't been begging, so far, and you've saved me from that knife-wielding idiot. So. Iwaswonderingifyouwouldacceptthis."

The blind man slowly extended one grimy hand towards Draco. Draco considered jerking his arm away, but Malfoys didn't do that. So he let the man touch him and find the coin on his palm. _Eww_.

"It's much more than I would give willingly," Draco hurried to say, "but now I owe you my life, sort of, and life debts must be honored by either killing your rescuer, or giving them a big reward to shut their mouth. So my father said."

The blind man smiled and folded Draco's fingers over the coin. "Keep it, Draco. I'd never accept money from a child."

At that, the gigantic black dog whimpered even more piteously. It sounded almost like hysterical sobbing. Draco, on the other hand, was relieved. He wiped his hand on his trousers and smiled amicably at the blind man.

"Well, that's very decent of you, Mr. Beggar. I tell you, you're the nicest Muggle beggar I've ever met," he said. "Not that I had the chance to meet too many Muggle beggars before. What's your name?"

"Just call me Moony," the beggar said. "What are you doing here in the city alone? I overheard you telling the ticket clerk that your parents were worried about you."

"I got lost," Draco confessed. "And I've also lost my wa – my walking cane."

Even if Moony found it strange why a healthy boy of thirteen would need a walking cane, he didn't show it. "What were you doing on Charing Cross Road?"

"Um, I was looking for an inn, the address said it should be there," Draco replied. "But the address must have been wrong. Listen, I need to get back to Standard place. I think there are some people there who could help me go home."

"Standard Place?" Moony sounded surprised.

"Yeah. To Mrs. Arabella Fletcher. She's an apothecary."

"Hmmm. I think Padfoot and I could take you there," Moony offered. "Is that all right?"

Draco thought it over. "Yeah, I think it's all right. Thanks. Shall we go?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Draco and the man called Moony walked in silence for a while. Draco spent some of the time making sure he was never walking at Padfoot's side, but after a few moments he got used to manoeuvring that way. Now nothing would stop him from wondering about other things. The silence, for example. Mr. Moony hadn't uttered a word since they started on their way. Draco immediately felt an irrestisible need to talk.

"Er… Mr. Moony?"

"Yes?" He turned unseeing eyes towards Draco. And he _still_ managed to make it look like he'd been staring directly into Draco's eyes. It was unnerving.

"How did you overhear what I'd told the ticket clerk? You were outside the building, weren't you?" Draco asked.

"Oh, I could hear you very well from outside. My ears are rather sharp, I daresay," Mr. Moony replied casually, flashing a distracted smile in Draco's general direction.

Draco, therefore, just raised both his eyebrows, and said, "That's odd, especially among Mug- among your kind. Were you born that way, Mr. Moony? With sharp ears, I mean."

Mr. Moony tilted his head to one side. "Among my kind, you say? Hmm, perhaps you're not quite right. _My kind_ definitely has a reputation for sharp ears. As for the other thing, no, I wasn't born that way. It started when I was a small child. But it's a useful little gift, don't you think so?"

Draco hated the way Mr. Moony's voice sounded – so _candid_. What was so funny about sharp ears? He opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment about Mr. Moony's impossible sense of humour, but his stomach chose that very moment to start rumbling.

Mr. Moony stopped instantly. Draco looked at him, glad that the man couldn't see how embarrassed he was. A rumbling stomach was so indecorous.

Mr. Moony simply asked, "Have you eaten at all today?"

Draco made a face. "No. At my mother's request, Dobby served me porridge for breakfast this morning. I hate porridge. And then I and my father went out, so we didn't have lunch, either."

The truth was, Narcissa Malfoy had provided Draco with some biscuits after breakfast, seeing that repeated offers of porridge would only lead to her son starving to death. However, Draco felt that admitting such a thing would reduce his chances for a decent evening meal.

Mr. Moony's smile was back. "I suppose we'll have to get you some dinner, then."

The more Draco had to look at Mr. Moony's face, the more unnerving his smile seemed. Was this man ever anything but cheerful?

But he didn't comment on it. He was saving his remarks for after the meal.

Draco didn't like Mr. Moony's plan a bit. All right, he _had_ expressed a desire to be involved in as little action as possible, but as he watched Mr. Moony and Padfoot move away from Draco's position at the corner of Liverpool Road and Upper Street, he felt left out.

According to the plan, Mr. Moony and Padfoot would, in the first step, go into a grocer's shop a few blocks away. Mr. Moony would pretend buying some scones, but instead of paying for them, he would start clutching at his chest and moan things like _Oh, blimey, I can't breathe_ – and so on and so forth.

Next, Mr. Moony would theatrically sway and collapse in a neat but smelly heap on the floor. The shop assistant would throw a tantrum, of course, and after several attempts at reviving Mr. Moony to no avail, would go and _tellerfoam_ the _Ambience_. (Mr. Moony had explained Draco that the _Ambience_ was a vehicle like the Knight Bus, only with Medimuggles on board). In his or her absence, Padfoot would snatch the scones from the counter and return to Draco. Mr. Moony would join them a few hours later, when he was released from hospital.

The shop they were planning to raid was big and looked remarkably ugly, even from a distance. It was owned by a Muggle called Sainsbury, or at least the sign above the door said so. Draco waited, and waited, and waited. He wondered if Muggle scones were the same as Wizarding ones. He made a mental note to save at least one scone for Moony. He was so hungry, he felt he could eat them all, but that would be unfair to Mr. Moony.

Suddenly, loud noises snapped him back to reality. He peered around the corner, and saw Padfoot running towards him full-tilt. Without a single scone. The dog's eyes were gleaming madly. Before Draco could have done anything, Padfoot seized his sleeve and dragged the surprised boy with him.

It was quite clear that the plan had failed, and there would be no food at all. Moreover, Mr. Moony was likely to be caught by the Muggle Aurors. As Padfoot dragged him along, Draco caught a glimpse of a strange vehicle with a sharp, vibrating light on top of it, heading towards Mr. Sainsbury's shop. Draco decided that must have been the _Ambience_. It was fortunate they'd reached the shop before the Muggle Aurors. Now Mr. Moony would be able to fake illness. The _Ambience_ was likely to take him, which meant he might avoid getting arrested. People usually tended to think ill people innocent.

The dog was so fast that Draco could hardly keep up with him. But a couple of minutes later they stopped abruptly in front of another shop. Draco stared at the sign. _ARABELLA FLETCHER, APOTHECARY_.

Padfoot released his sleeve and darted to the nearest basement window. It was open. Before Draco could have told him to stop, the dog wiggled through the window and disappeared. Draco had no choice but to follow him.

It was dark inside. Draco slid through the window and put his feet down blindly. Unfortunately, there was some kind of an obstacle a few feet above the floor. Another worktable. Draco could hear the hundreds of tiny crashes as the vials on the table were smashed to pieces under his feet. He swore and jumped to the floor. This time he landed safely and without much noise.

He squinted and looked around. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, until he could make out the dim outlines of the room. There were shelves everywhere, almost blocking the other end of the room from view. Almost, but not quite – Draco could still get glimpses of the massive iron door that took up most of the opposite wall. The door was rusty, although the room itself was squeaky clean, like the shop above. The vials and glass jars on the shelves looked too uniform, too Muggle. Draco supposed this was the laboratory where all those Muggle medicines they were selling were concocted.

Padfoot was standing beside the table. He sniffed at the smashed vials and sneezed.

Draco sneered at him. "If I were you, I wouldn't continue ruining my olfactory functions, Mr. Padfoot."

The dog turned its head a bit, gave Draco a reproachful look, and turned back to the table. He sniffed at the vials once more, then sneezed again.

Draco grabbed the dog's collar and yanked him away from the table.

"Stand back, you stupid mutt. You're too noisy. And your muzzle is already covered in – yuck, dog snot."

At that, Padfoot growled at him, so Draco let go of the collar and wiped his hands on his trousers.

"This place smells like Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover," he muttered. "I wonder if we could sell them a few bottles. I think they could be convinced it was some kind of a medication."

Padfoot barked twice, sharply. It almost sounded like laughter.

"Oh, very funny," Draco snapped, and turned towards the window. "I'm glad you like my sense of humour, mutt. Now let's get out of here, shall we? Better come back in the morning, after we've found Moony."

Hearing Moony's name, the dog perked up, and started pulling Draco's sleeve again.

"What is it now? Stop that!" Draco exclaimed. "You're ruining my clothes! Bad doggie! Stop!"

Padfoot ignored his weak protests and started dragging the boy towards the rusted door.

"Let me go, you underbred cur!" Draco yelled. He tried to push the dog away, but Padfoot was too quick. Somehow, he always managed to avoid the boy's flailing arms. By the time Draco realised he would never be able to grab Padfoot that way, they were already at the door.

"Release me right now!" Draco screamed. "Shoo! Let me go, you disgusting, slobbering canine! I'm not going any further! It's unsafe! You might as well give up, because I'm not going anywhere! Do you understand, you thick-headed, retarded beast?"

He grabbed at the nearest shelf to steady himself. Unfortunately, the shelf wasn't too steady to begin with. It creaked and tipped over, raining Muggle medicine over Draco's head. Several jars contained some kind of fine, white, pulverized substance which seemed to cover everything.

When it was all over, Draco stopped coughing and opened his eyes. The laboratory looked as if it had been snowing inside. Draco looked at Padfoot and burst into laughter.

"Merlin's beard, you should see yourself, mutt. You're white like the Easter Bunny."

Padfoot growled at him again, but somehow the effect was ruined by the fact that he was chalk-white and had difficulties blinking. The powder must have gotten into his eyes. Draco couldn't seem to stop laughing. He was vaguely aware that he sounded hysterical, but he just laughed on.

Suddenly, the rusted door flung open and light flooded the room. Draco tried to shield his eyes with one hand, while peering through his fingers to see the intruder.

"Hands up, everybody! I'm armed!" a familiar voice said. Draco squinted in the voice's direction. All he could see was the silhouette of the interloper, with messy hair and pigtails. She was holding something in her hands.

It was the girl called Harry.

Draco screamed, although he didn't really know why. It just seemed the appropriate thing to do.

The girl called Harry seized this opportunity to raise the object in her hands and spurt some kind of bubbly liquid into Draco's open mouth. Draco started sputtering, silenced by the sudden attack. He felt the powdery substance melt on his skin. Thanks to the girl called Harry, and her lethal Muggle weapons, he was now covered in white goo. Which was undoubtedly toxic. Draco started screaming again, but his voice was muffled by the ice cold liquid still invading his mouth. The liquid was disgustingly sweet, but still it stung Draco's tongue. It was worse than Aunt Bellatrix's homemade Billywig schnapps.

Suddenly, Draco heard a bark, followed by Harry's yelp. The intrusive liquid was gone, having made its way down Draco's convulsing throat and churning stomach. Thank Merlin, it wasn't followed by any more. The girl called Harry was lying spread-eagled on the floor. Padfoot was sitting on her middle, pinning her arms to the ground – and he was licking her face.

"No, no, stop it, doggie," the girl called Harry squealed, giggling helplessly. "I'm not made of ice cream!"

Padfoot, of course, showed no signs of stopping. The "weapon" Harry used slipped from her hand, rolling forlornly on the floor. Draco bent closer and examined it. It was a huge green bottle, with a paper tag glued on its middle. It said _Sprite_. It was almost empty now, and looked conspicuously harmless.

"What the hell is going on down here? Har – Julia! Answer me!" said another voice.

Draco looked up. Now he could see that there was a staircase behind the open door, leading up to the ground floor. The voice was coming from the top of the stairs. Draco knew this voice, too. It was that horrible man, Harry's uncle. And he wasn't alone. Draco could hear at least two more voices, one of them distinctly female, asking, "What's going on? Professor Snape, are you all right?"

"Don't you dare touch me, Arabella," Uncle Severus' voice hissed. "I'm fine. It's – it's Julia. Now stand back and let me–"

"Oooh!"the woman's voice screamed. "Julia, darling, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Fletcher!" Harry yelled from the floor. "I've been attacked by a dog, but it's all right, it's very friendly, you don't have to–"

"Of course we have to, imbecilic little bint!" Uncle Severus, alias Professor Snape, yelled back. "I'm coming down."

Draco could hear him run down the stairs, his slippers clattering on the wood. A second later, said slippers came into view, followed by a billowy grey nightgown, a green bathrobe, two sallow-skinned hands, a candle, a hook-nosed face, a mess of stringy black hair and a tasseled grey nightcap.

The man's face was furious. Draco felt cold dread in the marrow of his bones under the gaze of those merciless black eyes. He took a tentative step backwards.

Padfoot raised his muzzle from Harry's face and growled at the man. Snape snarled back at him. "Take your filthy paws _off_ my niece, you vermin."

Padfoot bared his whole set of teeth – _just as yellow as Snape's_, Draco observed, _no difference there_ – and charged at the Professor. Snape threw the candle at him. Padfoot reared back on his hind legs, and the candle didn't even touch him. It landed a few feet away from Harry. For a moment, Draco waited for the white powder to prove flammable, but nothing happened. Meanwhile, Padfoot charged again. This time, Snape pulled a small vial out of the pocket of his bathrobe, and threw that at the dog.

Padfoot didn't even try to dodge the vial; he seemed determined to tear out Snape's throat and disembowel him on the spot. The vial smashed to pieces on his forehead. His fur was too thick, the shards of glass couldn't hurt him, but the potion inside the vial splashed over his face. Thick droplets of potion clung to his fur and eyelashes. Then the droplets started to glow with a strange red light.

Padfoot stopped abruptly, and started to shake his head. But the droplets seemed stuck to his fur. The red light inside them started sparkling. Draco noticed that each droplet was _buzzing_ with energy. The next moment, they exploded in a shower of red sparks.

Draco ducked, but strangely enough, the sparks didn't reach anybody else but Padfoot. They disappeared under the dog's fur. Padfoot's body went rigid. His eyes lost their focus. He slid down the stairs and stopped moving.

"What have you done?" yelled Draco and the girl called Harry in unison.

Snape merely glared at them, especially at Draco. "It has received a dose of Bottled Stunner. It will survive. Anyway, this accident could have been prevented if you hadn't let the mongrel climb into Mrs. Fletcher's laboratory."

"You don't understand, sir,"Draco argued. "Padfoot doesn't belong to me. He belongs to Moony, and I don't know where he is, but we have to find him, because he's been helping me, and I'm lost, and the Leaky Cauldron's entrance is gone, and I've landed in fucking Muggle London after a Floo accident–"

"Silence!" screeched Snape. He strode over to Draco, grabbed him by both shoulders, and flattened the terrified boy to the nearest wall. "What. Did. You. Just. Say."

"I don't know, sir, I swear–" Draco babbled, on the verge of tears.

"The NAMES," Snape hissed. "The mutt and his master."

"Oh, them? Padfoot and Moony, you m-mean? Well, they're odd n-names–"Draco stammered.

Snape clamped one hand on Draco's mouth, bent closer, and breathed into the boy's face, "Do. Not. Mention. These. Names. Ever. Again. Understood?"

Draco could smell anchovies and garlic on the man's breath. He gagged at the smell, but managed to nod his agreement, not that he had another choice. But he was already planning his revenge.

Snape slowly released him, and turned away, addressing Harry. "Julia. Take that mutt upstairs. We shall have to clean him up."

The girl called Harry-or-Julia hesitated a bit, but eventually did as Snape told her. Snape watched her go with a blank, distant expression on his face. He opened his mouth, as if he'd wanted to call after the girl, but Draco chose that moment to pipe up.

"Sir, I know that you're a wizard because you can make potions, but I also know that you've probably committed some kind of a crime, or else you wouldn't have been exiled. Does it have to do with the fact that your niece is actually a boy?"

Snape pivoted on his heels, glaring at Draco. "Are you trying to blackmail me, boy?"

"Would I do such a thing?" Draco asked innocently. The night was looking up. Snape suddenly looked less intimidating.

Draco let the man approach him again, with a cautious expression on his otherwise sour face.

"What is your name?" Snape asked in an almost friendly tone.

Draco racked his brain for the names of other blond boys he knew. "Zacharias Smith," he said finally, with a bright smile.

Snape looked into his eyes for a long while. Draco found it terribly annoying. Then Snape's long fingers shot out and grabbed Draco's jaw. Draco tried to get away, his small fists pummeling Snape's arms, but the Professor, of course, ignored him completely. He pinched Draco's nose with another hand, and waited until Draco opened his mouth to gulp down some air. Draco was horrified when he saw the small flask Snape produced from his seemingly bottomless pocket. The Professor thrust the tiny bottle between Draco's teeth and poured a little of the flask's contents into his mouth. Then he released Draco abruptly.

"Up the stairs, boy. Move."

Draco looked at him with as much contempt as he could muster. "What if I don't?"

Snape's mouth twitched. "Now you look just like your father when he was your age. Except that he was much more intelligent, and far better at resisting Legilimency, Mr. Malfoy. He would have made up a better lie about his identity, and he wouldn't have fallen prey to me like you did. But I am glad you did. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to test my newest brew on you."

Draco went whiter than the powder on his face. "That concoction you've forced down my throat? What's it going to do to me?"

"Nothing too dramatic, if you behave like a good boy and follow my orders,"Snape sneered. "Otherwise, it shall make your testicles shrivel up, and finally, when they have shrunken to the size of cherries, part with your body. In that case, I shall serve them to your mutt for breakfast."

Draco turned and marched up the stairs without another word. Snape glanced once more around the ruined laboratory, and made a face before following the boy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

On the top of the stairs, Draco was greeted by an anxious-looking old woman and a beady-eyed old man.

The old man thrust out one hand towards him. He smelled of cheap tobacco. "I'm Mundungus Fletcher, and this is my wife Arabella. We don't usually have no visitors 'ere before dawn, but we've seen greater wonders, 'aven't we?" He winked at Draco. "Who are you, lad?

Draco thought it better not to offend the old man, so they shook hands. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, and clamped his free hand on his mouth immediately. He had wanted to say 'Zacharias Smith'!

The old man released his hand immediately, with a look of horror on his face.

"I see my enhanced Veritaserum is in effect," Snape said silkily behind Draco. He put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Come on, Mr. Malfoy, it is time for you to answer some questions. Mrs. Fletcher, I believe this juvenile delinquent has made a bit of a mess in your laboratory. You had better take a good look. Ah, and I think your supplies of talc have diminished as well."

With that, he steered Draco into the back room, leaving the shocked Fletchers behind. Harry was there with the unconscious Padfoot.

"Your nightgown looks way too short," Snape told Harry. "Have you no sense of decency? Go get dressed. I'm not having you in my house without proper clothes."

Harry glared at him. "This is a tee, not a nightgown. And it's oversized as it is. It's far from being indecent."

"I don't care whatever you wear when there aren't any strangers around," Snape scowled. "But having pubescent boys staring at your breasts is another story."

Draco realised Snape was talking about him. Indeed, he _was_ staring at Harry's breasts. A boy's breasts. Draco averted his eyes, face burning in shame.

Harry noticed it and rolled _her_ eyes. (_Or **his**? Oh, bugger!_ – Draco thought) "Fine. I'll be back in a moment."

Draco always thought it took women ages to get dressed. It was true of his mother, anyway. Harry, on the other hand, didn't seem to have such problems. She was back in half a minute, wearing the same striped top and red skirt Draco had seen earlier that day.

Snape looked at Harry's bare feet and legs. "No, that's still too… tempting. In the company of such young criminals as Mr. Malfoy, it is better not to take chances. Put on a pair of – you know."

"I know what?" Harry asked.

"Oh, my. I mean those thick trousers. The blue pair. Whatever they're called," Snape said disdainfully.

Realisation dawned on Harry's face. "Oh. My jeans."

She left the room again, just to come back with a pair of what looked like a House Elf's loincloth dyed blue and tailored to fit the owner's limbs so tightly that fleas would have had problems getting under it. To Draco's surprise, the girl started wiggling into them on the spot. This time Snape didn't say anything. He just buried his face in his hands. Finally, Harry pulled on the trousers, but left the skirt on as well.

"There," she said. "Better?"

Snape eyed her critically. "No, but it shall have to do. We have wasted enough time already. Fetch me a chair. Thank you. Now give the mutt a dose of Sleeping Draught while I'm interrogating Mr. Malfoy. And then, drink half a flagon of your own potion."

"My own potion? Why?" Harry asked. "I usually don't have to take it in the middle of the night."

"True, but now you are awake. Being awake means your system metabolises the potion faster. Consequently, you must take a new dose," Snape said, exasperation clear in his voice.

Draco started sniggering, but Snape turned towards him immediately and ruined the mood. "What is so funny, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, nothing really," Draco said. "Absolutely nothing. It's just that your nephew – or niece – can be extraordinarily thick sometimes, and you can't even humiliate her properly for that."

Somewhere in the middle of his little speech, Draco realised that he should have stopped after 'absolutely nothing'. At least, he had intended to. How come he couldn't?

The Professor looked annoyed and satisfied at the same time. "You are responding wonderfully to the serum, Mr. Malfoy. Your answers are outrageously impudent, but so far you have not said anything I have not known."

"He said 'nephew or niece'! And he called me 'Harry'! How on earth does he know–" chimed in The-Boy-Who-Was-A-Girl.

"I've seen you come in here as a boy, and I've seen you change into a girl," Draco replied, face blank.

Snape glared at Harry. "Have I not made myself clear enough, imbecilic child? It is _my_ turn to talk, not yours." After that, he turned back to Draco. "I think we should go back to the very beginning. Tell me your full name."

Draco's eyes lost focus again. "My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy."

"Are you the son of Lucius Verus Malfoy, of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire?"

"Yes, I am. Which means, he's my father."

Snape waved a hand in irritation. "Yes, yes, that's clear, no need to be pleonastic. How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"Why have you come here at such an ungodly hour of the night?"

"To sneak back to your Floo and go back home the way I got here."

Snape frowned. "We have no Floo connection."

"Yes, you do," Draco said.

"Really? And may I inquire where?" Snape asked, slowly.

"In the corner of this room, inside the iron stove. When I arrived here, I found an ignited cigar stub, or something like that. The Floo network must have perceived it as a sign that the fireplace was active," Draco droned impassively.

Snape pounced on the information. "_When you arrived here_, you said. When was that?"

"Mid-afternoon. I don't know the exact time."

"Did you know this address?"

"No. I just mispronounced my destination. Well, okay, not just mispronounced. I started insulting one of our House Elves, and the network took me to the destination which sounded closest to what I'd said."

"The cigar stub you found, what was it like? Was there anything unusual about it? Was it magical?"

"No, it wasn't magical, I would have felt that. But it wasn't a proper cigar stub, either. It was wrapped in paper. Also, there was an inscription on the paper."

"What did it say?"

"It said _Marlboro Lights_. Is that some kind of a spell?"

The Professor turned to Harry. "Have you been smoking again?"

Harry went beet-red. "Uh, well, yeah. Sorry."

"Right. Fetch me the cigarette stub. I would like to examine it."

"I've cleaned the stove up in the evening," Harry admitted, looking ashamed and angry at the same time. "Look, I'm sorry about it, I'm sorry about the whole thing, okay? I mean, you told me once you had tried smoking when you were twelve!"

Professor Snape stood up, drawing himself up to his full height. Although the man was looking at Harry, Draco felt his blood chill in his veins. Then Snape opened his mouth, but seemed unable to speak. Brick-red patches appeared on his face and neck. Harry took an involuntary step back, a stoppered bottle full of Sleeping Draught still in his hand. An unwilling witness to the scene, Draco simply wanted to run home to his mum.

Professor Snape took a deep breath. "Harry. What are the most common effects of tobacco smoke, when applied internally?"

"It boosts up your metabolism," Harry answered after a bit of hesitation.

Snape inclined his head. "Precisely. Now tell me, if retaining your current shape and gender depends on the time it takes you to metabolise the potion – as the fact that I have asked you to take an extra dose suggests – how would smoking affect the duration of said potion's effects?"

"Um, the effects would wear off sooner?" Harry offered.

"Yes," Snape hissed, "exactly. Which means that your relapse this afternoon wasn't simply caused by your otherwise remarkable forgetfulness, but by the fact that you engaged _in a Muggle ritual where the key element is a poisonous substance_, in a premeditated attempt at disobeying me and questioning my authority and my concern for your well-being!"

Snape took a deep breath again, and Draco expected another outburst, so he moved behind the workbench, in case he would have to defend himself. Instead, the Professor sank back into his seat after a short pause. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he'd just got a terrible headache. "We shall talk about this later, Harry. Right now, we have more pressing duties. Mr. Malfoy, do not try to hide. Answer me. What is your father's current political status?"

"He serves directly under Minister Fudge, as Vice Chairman of the Death Eaters' High Council, and Lieutenant-General of the Auror Office,"Draco drawled. "Hey, are you trying to squeeze strategically important information from me?"

Snape shook his head. "No, I'm not trying to – I'm already doing it. What are the Death Eater Council's main tasks?"

Draco shrugged. "They make laws, hold court, distribute money coming in from taxes, things like that."

"Wouldn't that be the Wizengamot's duty?" Snape interrupted.

Draco shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. There's no Wizengamot. There are only Death Eaters."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "How many Death Eaters are there in the country now?"

Draco shrugged again. "Don't know. I'd say quite a lot, because you're admitted to their ranks when you become twelve. See? This tattoo is called the Dark Mark. Death Eaters, even juniors like me, wear tattoos like that."

Snape's eyes bulged slightly as he watched Draco roll his sleeve up and hold his left forearm out for inspection. Harry was staring at both of them, mouth slightly open.

Snape's face twitched. "Where are the Death Eater headquarters?"

"In the Ministry of Magic, first floor, but in the summer debates are sometimes held on the Isle of Azkaban, in the memorial park, as far as I can remember."

"Then you are not remembering very well," Snape snapped. "Azkaban is a prison. There is no park there."

Draco shook his head. "It used to be a prison, but the DE Council passed a reform bill previous year. Now there is a nice memorial park on the Isle, commemorating the Death Eater heroes who suffered in the prison. I've been there with Father. Once you get past the guards, it's a cool place. Father has even initiated building a hotel on Azkaban Beach…"

"I see. Where is the prison now?" Snape asked.

"The prison has been relocated to the vicinity of a Scottish village, Hogs-something," Draco said, shrugging. "Father said there used to be a school once, but now it's a really creepy place, full of wild ghosts. People say it belonged to Dumbledore, you know, the blood-traitor bloke who assassinated Lord Voldemort–"

Snape stood up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over. He gathered his dressing robe around him, and headed for the door.

"Did I say something wrong?" Draco asked lamely.

Snape was already through the door. He called back over his shoulder, "Harry, I am going downstairs to help Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. Please be so kind and bathe Mr Malfoy and the mutt while I'm away. I shall return in the morning and inspect your work."

With that, he left the room.

Draco stared at the empty doorway until he felt someone nudge his shoulder. It was the girl called Harry

"Hey, blondie," she said. "Don't just stand there, help me. Bring some water. You can take a hot shower upstairs after we've taken care of Padfoot."

"Don't call me blondie."

"Draco, then. Would you bring some water, please? There's a tap next to the door."

Draco crossed his arms over his narrow, thin chest. "I think it would be better if you let me take a shower and some food first."

Harry bit her lower lip. "Look, maybe it's better if we just do what Severus said. I've never seen him so angry."

"Why do you think he got this furious?" Draco asked.

Harry shrugged. "No idea. I'll find out if I can, okay? Not now, though. Better let him calm down a bit. Until then, we might as well bathe your doggie. Hold on; I'll be right back with the mop."

While he filled the largest cauldron with water, Draco wondered what crime Snape and Harry had committed that they had to hide from the wizarding world. He also wondered why Snape wanted Harry disguised as a girl, while he dragged the cauldron back to the middle of the room. It was awfully heavy, and wobbled when Draco tried to move it, but somehow he managed not to slosh too much water during the process.

Harry returned shortly afterwards with what looked like Muggle cleaning products and a mop. She eyed Draco's work critically. "There was a bucket under the tap. Why on earth did you use Severus' favourite cauldron?"

Draco shrugged. "The tap was dripping, so I thought I'd better leave the bucket there. Besides, Padfoot is really large, he wouldn't fit into the bucket."

"True," Harry said. "Let's just get over with it, then, and hope Severus doesn't find us out."

They went over to Padfoot and grabbed him by the paws. The dog opened his eyes and whined.

"Oh, crap!" Draco said, releasing Padfoot hastily. "I thought he was supposed to be knocked out."

"I thought the same," Harry assured him. "I don't know what happened. Maybe the potion wasn't potent enough, though that's not too possible. It's supposed to work just fine. There was only one occasion when it didn't. Once Mundungus got really drunk, and he went bonkers. He was completely delirious, and we dosed him with Sleeping Draught, but he just got more drunk. The potion is alcohol-based, so it might not work if you're already an alcoholic, but dogs usually don't drink spirits, do they?"

"No, I suppose not," Draco agreed. He bent over to Padfoot again. "Erm, nice doggie. You're just going to have a bath."

Unfortunately, Padfoot struggled all the while they shampooed him. By the time he was more or less clean, Harry and Draco were drenched in soapy water. Draco was also nursing a small bite on his hand, and there were thin, bloody scratches on Harry's lower arms.

"Okay, hold him down for a while!" Harry instructed. "I'll get some water to rinse him."

"What? No, wait, where are you going?" Draco cried. "Don't leave me alone!"

"Oh, bugger, just hold him down while I'm filling the bucket with water!" Harry snapped. "I'll be back in a sec."

It took more than a second, and by the time Harry returned with the water, Padfoot managed to bite Draco one more time. Harry upended the bucket over the dog's head. Padfoot almost bolted, but Draco was holding on to his neck with all his strength.

"Gotcha!" Harry said triumphantly.

"Got me, you mean," Draco muttered. He'd gotten at least half of the water. And it only got worse when he released Padfoot and the dog shook. True, Padfoot looked really thin with his fur wet. He also seemed exhausted by his struggle. He started to cast a disdainful look at Harry and Draco, but he stopped in mid-motion, staring at Harry. His eyes widened.

Draco followed Padfoot's gaze. "Uh oh. I guess you're a boy again, Harry. Your tits are gone."

Harry stared at his own chest and blushed deeply. "Damn! I can never feel when I change back." He hurried over to the workbench, picked up a bottle, and downed its entire contents in one gulp.

His convulsions started soon after that. Draco watched him – her – impassively as he, or she, was writhing on the floor; he knew what to expect, after all. Not that it wasn't awful. Padfoot, on the other hand, was truly distressed by the sight. He went over to Harry and pressed his cool nose to the boy's – girl's – face.

"Hey, doggie," Harry mumbled. "Don't look so worried. S'alright. It's supposed to hurt a bit."

The dog pulled away, and trotted to the puddle of soapy water on the floor. He dipped one paw into the puddle, then hobbled a few feet away, holding his wet paw above the ground. Then he started scratching the floor where it was dry.

"Mr. Padfoot, you seem determined to cause an even bigger mess," Draco said haughtily. "Cease your activities immediately, or I'm calling Snape."

Padfoot just growled at the mention of Snape's name, but didn't stop. Draco stepped in front of him.

"Look here, mutt," he began, annoyed. But the rest stuck in his throat as he glimpsed the wet traces of the dog's paw.

Glistening in the dim lamplight, the letters J-A-M-E-S were clearly visible on the floor.

"James," Draco whispered in awe.

"What?" Harry asked, hauling herself to her feet. She walked over to Draco. Her face went white as she read the wobbly letters. "This is–"

"This is amazing," Draco whispered. "I should have known. Padfoot is a magical dog. But who is James?"

"It's me," Harry said in a small voice. "My middle name is James. And it's my dad 's name as well."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Harry and Draco were sitting on the floor of the Potions laboratory, heads bent over a sheet of paper, reading.

Harry had devised a truly effective method of communication between Padfoot and themselves. They had used one of Harry's notebooks and had written the alphabet inside it, making sure the letters were big enough for Padfoot to touch them with his nose. When it was ready, all Padfoot had to do was to point at the letters, while Draco put the words together and jotted down the dog's message. It read -

YOUR DAD DED SORRY I DIDNT KNO WAS BEST FRIEND AT SKOOL TOGETHE MOONY TOO THINKS YOU DED BUT NOW I SEE YOU ALIVE HAPPY MUST FIND MOONY IN HOSPITAL.

"So, um, Padfoot says your daddy is, er,dead," Draco said slowly. "Look, I know that sounds really stupid. I mean, how could a dog like Mr. Padfoot, even if he's magical, make claims and allegations of your father's state of, er, health."

"He's telling the truth," Harry said, silencing Draco with an impatient wave of her hand. She stood up, closed the copybook and started pacing around the lab. "My dad and mom died a few months after my first birthday, and I don't remember them at all. It's all right, really. I don't keep it a secret."

Draco watched her make a show of smoothing the notebook out and putting it on the worktable. He wasn't sure what was the right thing to say to someone whose parents were dead. Therefore, he settled on not saying anything.

"I guess it's lucky that Padfoot stopped at the end of each word, at least," Harry sighed. "Now we only have to deal with his spelling."

"He's a dog, you shouldn't expect him to spell like an academic," Draco said, secretly glad that they'd steered away from Uncanny Topics.

"He isn't a real dog," Harry said, smiling a little. She seemed to have regained her spirits. She pointed at the paper. "Look, it says _best friend skool togethe_. I bet Padfoot used to be human, a long time ago. Right, Mr. Padfoot?"

They both looked in Padfoot's direction, only to find him snoring peacefully in the middle of a soapy puddle.

"Oh, how sweet," Draco said in a falsetto voice.

"I think the potion has finally kicked in," Harry observed. "Just like in Mundungus's case. Funny."

"Are you suggesting Mr. Padfoot is an _alcoholic_?" Draco asked in mock outrage.

"It's more than just a suggestion, I guess," Harry said, laughing. "Great, no more questions tonight. He seems tired. We should let him sleep. It's not that we don't have anything else to do. We have to clean up this mess, before Severus checks back on us. You take care of the floor; I'll take care of the cauldron."

Draco groaned, but eventually hauled himself to his feet and grabbed the mop.

"It's going to take ages to clean this up without magic," he said, eyeing the floor critically.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. So, the sooner you begin, the better."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Why don't you just shut _up_?"

Suddenly, he felt the mop's handle give an excited buzz in his grip. He stared at it incredulously. _What did I say to make it go – oh. **Up.**_

Slowly and carefully, he let go of the handle. The mop was floating in the air. Draco quickly grabbed it again, before it could have shot up to the ceiling.

Draco felt his lips twist into a smirk. "You know, Harry, you were right. The sooner the better. All I needed was a flying mop -"

"You're mental," Harry said. "Mops can't fly."

She fell silent as Draco rose gracefully in the air. Draco grinned at her, and pulled up the handle, tilting the mop into a vertical position.

The floor was clean within ten seconds.

"I don't know about other mops," Draco drawled, not even trying to mask his smugness. "This one certainly _can_ fly."

When he looked at Harry, the girl had a greedy expression on her face Draco had never seen before. "Hop down, Draco, I want to try it, too."

Draco suspected she would fail miserably, even on a Firebolt, but he didn't know how to tell her gently. Instead, he opted for the aggressive approach. "You don't have the balls for it, _Julia_. Or should I call you Harriet?"

Harry replied with a string of complicated oaths that even her greasy git of an uncle would have admired. At the same time, she jumped towards the mop. "I'm gonna get you back for this!"

Draco knew that he was much, much faster than Harry. He knew moving the handle a few inches would be more than enough. Besides, the poor little bint had glasses, for Merlin's sake. She didn't have a chance.

He was really surprised when Harry actually caught the handle, and jerked it out of Draco's grip.

"Are you insane, Harry?" he shouted, clutching himself, trying to regain his balance at the same time. "You've crushed my most private parts!"

Harry's only reply was a wild laugh. Draco snarled at her. "Just wait until your crown jewels are back from Neverland, I'll show you what it's like to have a mop's handle jammed into them!"

Harry rewarded this eruption with an unrepentant grin. "Mind your own crown jewels, Draco. I'm learning to fly here. Hop down."

"It's not as easy as it seems!" Draco screamed as he obediently climbed off the mop, quieted it down and laid it on the floor. To tell the truth, he was a bit worried about Harry – or, more precisely, that greasy git of an uncle of hers, who was likely to fry Draco's goolies in a vat of pumpkin seed oil when he discovered Draco had to be involved in his niece's sudden, mop-induced demise.

Harry, unaware of Draco's thoughts about impending fate and death, just shrugged as she went to stand beside the mop. "It seems easy to me. You just have to say _up_ – "

_It's going to be alright,_ Draco thought. _No one has ever managed to get their brooms into the air on the first try. She's bound to fail, and she'll be too discouraged afterwards to try again –_

The handle smacked into Harry's hand, and a second later soared into the air.

"Bugger," Draco said, softly and with feeling.

Harry was clutching the handle, feet dangling a few inches above the ground. "This is brilliant! How do you make it turn?"

"It's really difficult. It requires a lot of concentration, and a kind of eye-and-hand coordination that bespectacled people don't have. Not that I have anything against your glasses. It's just that you don't even know how to sit upright on the mop, so I think that should come first," Draco said breathlessly.

He knew he was babbling a bit; Harry proved to be a real distraction to his reasoning. She had managed to swing one leg over the handle and pull herself into a sitting position. More importantly, her boobs spilled from under her T-shirt during the process. It was very hard not to look at them. Very hard. So Draco eventually gave up and just stared transfixedly.

Harry stopped in mid-air and bent over Draco, with an anxious expression on her face and a healthy flush all over her body. "Draco, are you all right? What's the matter?"

"I think," said a silky, all-too-familiar voice from the doorway, "that Mr. Malfoy is worried because he already knows that from now on, you shall have to wear a bra at night, Harry."

Harry and the mop landed on the floor with a thud. Draco whirled on his heels in the direction of Snape's voice. He almost stumbled during the process, as he was trying to put a greater distance between them at the same time.

"I wasn't looking at her tits," he began. "They were in the way while I was observing the shelves behind her."

"Maybe I should have administered you a double dose of Veritaserum," Snape mused, stepping closer to Draco. "You were much more tolerable when you weren't telling lies, Mr. Malfoy. Your lies are extremely boring."

"Did you charm the mop to fly, Professor?" Draco asked, backing down slowly.

Snape's eyes narrowed, looking even more menacing than before. Then he stopped, face impassive. A heartbeat later, he suddenly turned around, stepped over to Harry and picked the mop up. "I can't charm anything to fly. I don't have my wand anymore."

He helped Harry on her feet. "Are you injured?"

The girl shook her head mutely.

"Good," Snape said. "Show Mr. Malfoy upstairs and make sure he takes a hot shower, and has clean clothes. Do not dawdle. I want him and his precious dog out of my house in fifteen minutes. He's been disturbing our peace long enough."

"But he has nowhere to sleep!" Harry squealed in protest.

Snape merely lifted a hand at that, but it was enough to silence her. "This is not up to negotiation. I'm certain that by now, Aurors have been sent out to search for Mr. Malfoy. Which is probably for the best. He does not belong here."

"But –"

Snape waved his hand impatiently.

"Do as I said. After we bid farewell to Mr. Malfoy, I want you in bed as quickly as possible. Asleep. Without delays or late-night reading sessions under the blanket. It's two o'clock in the morning. You will be woken at seven o'clock sharp. I've decided it shall be best for both of us to make you spend the rest of the holiday with me in the museum. That way, your possibilities of getting into trouble might decrease somewhat."

An odd look crossed Harry's face. "Today is okay, but not tomorrow. I promised Hermione I'd invite her over to celebrate my birthday."

Snape crossed his arms over his chest, holding the mop as if it had been some kind of a weapon. "I couldn't care less. You'll call her and cancel the invitation."

"That's not fair! It's my birthday," Harry argued, "and Hermione is my best friend. I won't invite anyone else over."

"You won't invite Miss Granger over to begin with. You have Arabella and Mundungus. You have me. You have your family," Snape hissed. "Isn't that enough for you?"

"That's not the same," Harry said, irritated.

"Exactly – she's an outsider, just like Mr. Malfoy here," Snape snapped. "She doesn't know who you are. Whenever she graces us with her presence, she causes trouble. I don't know how much time we have until her intolerable nosiness lands us in grave danger. I don't want her here. Do you understand?"

Not even waiting for an answer, he swept out of the room, mop in hand.

"He's quite awful, isn't he?" Draco asked when he reckoned Snape couldn't hear him anymore.

Harry waved him off. "He can be a lot nastier when he's really angry. This was nothing. Believe me, in the end he'll let me invite Hermione over. He just needs a bit of pressure. Don't mind him. Let's go upstairs."

Draco followed Harry through the door where Snape left. They were in the front part of the shop again. The staircase that led to the cellar was still there. Draco could hear Snape's voice from downstairs, calling Mundungus Fletcher a lazy old bastard.

"How can we get upstairs?" Draco asked.

"Wait and see," Harry replied with a grin. "Watch out."

She pressed a white button on the wall. The button beeped, and blinked red. The ceiling right above Draco's head emitted a loud, creaking noise. He stepped aside just in time, as a massive wooden ladder hit the floor at the exact spot where he'd been standing.

Harry motioned Draco forward and upward. "Blokes first."

She seemed pleased that she had been able to surprise Draco. In fact, she was grinning ear to ear in the fashion of the proverbial Cheshire kneazle. Draco was too tired for this. The ladder's sudden appearance had scared him quite a bit. He swallowed his heart back, and climbed up the ladder.

Beyond the ladder and the trapdoor, he found a spacious kitchen, a sitting room and a row of bedrooms. Harry guided him to the farthest – and, as it turned out, most chaotic and untidy – bedroom. Once there, she shoved a huge towel and a toothbrush in Draco's hands.

"Here, go to my bathroom, take a shower, whatever. You can keep the toothbrush. I'll get you some food and clothes."

Once Draco learned how to subdue the vicious metallic hose and adjust the water to a bearable temperature, he showered quickly and without permanent injuries. When he left the bathroom, wrapped in the towel, a set of clothes was waiting for him on the rumpled bed. They looked all right, if you got over the horrid candy-blue colour of the jumper and the trousers.

Draco hesitated for a moment, but since Harry was nowhere in sight, he shed the towel and put on the clothes. He was buttoning his fly when there was a knock at the door.

He strode to the door and tore it open, ready to tell Harry off for intruding upon him while he was getting dressed. However, the words died on his lips as soon as his brain processed that his visitor was Severus Snape.

"I presume you are clean and ready to leave," Snape said.

A few seconds passed before Draco realised Snape was waiting for an answer. "Well, I don't think I have another choice, have I?"

"No, of course you haven't," Snape replied. Draco expected him to gloat over the clothes, or the fact that he was chucking Draco out of the house, but he didn't. He simply stood aside and motioned Draco forward, with a gesture similar to Harry's. "After you."

When they climbed down the ladder, the Fletchers were waiting for them, with a drowsy-looking Padfoot. Draco was glad the dog was awake – that meant he wouldn't have to carry him. Harry was standing by the entrance door. She was holding a backpack in one hand. With the other hand, she gestured towards the horrible blue trousers she gave to Draco.

"Those are my best unisex jeans. Don't you dare ruin them; I'll have them back as soon as I can lose a few pounds" she said.

"Harry, how many times do I have to tell you that it is normal to grow out your clothes?" Snape said, annoyed.

Harry ignored the comment and held out the backpack to Draco. "This is yours. I've packed you your old clothes, some more clothes, a bottle of Coke, and a few sandwiches. And, erm, there's a envelope with a few quid, it's not much –"

"Harry, please, may I have a look at it," Snape said. It wasn't a question.

Hary handed the backpack over to Snape. He went through the contents carefully. He spent a long time examining the envelope, leafing through the banknotes.

"Harry, where's the letter?" Snape's voice was casual, but his eyes bore into Harry's like daggers.

"What letter?" Harry asked, annoyed.

"Any letter you might have written to instruct Draco how to meet you again," Snape said.

Harry looked outraged. "I haven't written him any letters."

They stared at each other for a while. Finally, Harry started blinking rapidly and looked away. Snape smirked triumphantly, and handed the backpack over to Draco. "Here, Mr. Malfoy. I wish you a safe journey."

Draco glared at him, but took the backpack anyway. He had a strong urge to shout and cry, but he was determined not to humiliate himself in front of Snape.

"Thank you, Professor Snape," he said icily. "Harry, it was good to see you. Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher."

"Oh, spare us the theatrics," Snape hissed. "Just go."

"Fine," Draco ground out. He turned around and marched through the entrance door, not looking back. "Come on, Padfoot, let's go."

Maybe it was a mistake that he didn't turn back. Maybe it was a mistake to ignore Padfoot's warning barks. But then again, he probably couldn't have stopped the vial that Snape hurled after him.

The small bottle smashed on the pavement. Before the purple, heavy fumes rising from the glass shards covered him, Draco could see the label for a second. There was a single word on it.

_Obliviate._


End file.
